


Evermore

by a_partofthenarrative



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Love Never Dies - Lloyd Webber, Phantom - Susan Kay, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-23 03:41:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21313585
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/a_partofthenarrative/pseuds/a_partofthenarrative
Summary: A clandestine meeting. A chilling encounter. A love that lives on. E/C. Phantom/LND compliant.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 26





	Evermore

**Author's Note:**

> Cross-posted from FFN. Something a little...different for Halloween. It was inspired by "Shimmer" by the wonderful poetspoblem with my own added twist. I've been wanting to try something like this for years. I hope it satisfies. As always, I'd love to hear your thoughts. Enjoy!
> 
> "Every love story is a ghost story"- David Foster Wallace

I wait for her in my usual place, from the gilded and refined comfort of row G, seat 7. It is not the first time I have watched her, silent and hidden by the darkness where light reigned only a short time before. She prefers to come shortly after the daily rehearsal, when the space is alive with a fresh buzz of energy; the product of many weeks worth of preparation and study. The better the rehearsal, the greater chance I have of furthering our clandestine acquaintance.

I know that it a peculiar habit to hold; I am perfectly aware of the whispers of my many eccentricities around the theater

I suppose one could call it a family trait.

She does not come every night that I linger. I do not stay every night that she might appear. Ours is a curious dance of possibility, ripened by the breathless anticipation of the coming production. I do not pretend to know her mind intimately- that is a privilege reserved entirely for another, but her visits come to pass enough that I feel confident that the odds are in my favor tonight.

As opening night draws near, I often find my prospects to be quite good

With a brief nod to the last gaggle of departing dancers, I settle into my seat and close my eyes, just for a moment, until my muscles loosen and it as almost as if I melt into the surrounding darkness. I am one with my environment, at ease in the false night around me. I draw a long breath in, then exhale, working to keep any sound from permeating the dark. Silence is the best ally on a night such as this and as my eyes open and cast themselves to the stage, I hear the faint, first notes of a familiar melody permeate the blackness, the clear, sweet soprano a mere echo of a whisper.

I feel my lips curling into a smile, a confirmation of my instincts.

She is here.

The melody grows and swells, in intensity and volume until it erupts into the auditorium, filling every crevice and cleft with the incomparable beauty of any voice before it. The sounds sends a thrill up my spine as my eyes simultaneously fill with tears. It is a song of joy and sorrow, triumph and tragedy in every line. It is altogether new and yet unsettling familiar. This, too, is always the same. Her songs teasingly invite you into her private world, but do not allow you to enter.

My hand rises to wipe at my misty eyes yet I know my smile is blinding. I am hardly one to be called sentimental, but tonight I find that I cannot care in the least. I have missed her so very much.

The aria culminates in a brilliant crescendo and it is in that victorious note that she appears on stage in all of her glory, eyes shining, arms raised and grinning like a fool. She is perfectly magnificent, clad in a gown the color of a summer sky with dark curls falling down in back in a sea of chestnut. Her pale skin almost glows and she almost seems to be lit from within from the simple joy of the music moving through her.

A more foolish man would jump to his feet to fall at hers, alternating between worshipful praise and glowing adoradion, but he would find his audience with this particular diva very short lived. Thankfully, I posses more wisdom than sense and so my ovation is contained to the shaking of my soul in the deep shadows of the orchestra.

Her smile is rapturous as the final notes fade away into the void, lingering perhaps a touch too long for humility before she drops her arms with a satisfied survey of her imaginary audience before her gaze is cast to the wings with an expectant air. _"Was the performance to your liking, maestro?"_

No answer comes. It rarely does at first.

On stage, the diva purses her lips, deflating slightly in the silence before drawing herself erect again. _"So it is to be war between us then?"_ she quips with a haughty tilt of her chin. _"Very well, monsieur, but be warned: I play to win."_

The sound that comes this time is enough to rival any orchestra, an entire symphony present in her voice. This song is different than her first, inhumanly beautiful, as if it had been written for her voice alone. If in her previous song, she was an angel, in this one she is an enchantress, weaving a special kind of magic with promises of eternal hope and soul-seeking love.

Her heavenly voice swells, the words pouring forth, imprinting themselves in my memory. For a flicker of a moment, I wonder if I have heard this song before. It is impossible, of course. It is from no opera or show that I can recall, but there is something achingly familiar about the melody, as if once upon another time, this very song brought about the culmination of a love story left unfinished.

I am helpless to stop the tears that suddenly fill my vision, blurring her before my eyes. I am still surprised by my visceral reaction to her singing, the lines of my body taut and relaxed at the same time as she returns us to earth with the concluding lines.

As sound dissolves into silence, she relaxes slightly, dropping her shoulders. _"And now, Angel? Will you _at last_ concede victory to me?"_

A half a heartbeat passes before an answer comes. _"Ah, Christine! What a triumph you gave me tonight…"_

A victorious grin blooms on her lips even as her eyes fall close at the sound of the new voice:an incomparable tenor, dark, rich, and tinged with honeyed seduction. Her body seems to lift and lean toward the wings, beckoning, and it is all she can do to resist the call.

I know this Voice, too; almost as well as the lady on stage. My heart clenches within my chest and for the briefest moment, the urge to approach them is almost overwhelming.

Christine's eyes open then, her smile caught somewhere between smug and elation. _"I knew you would be there."_

I can hear the smile behind his reply. _"I am never far away, my dear."_

Her expression grows hopeful. _"And the song?"_

_"You sang beautifully,"_ His voice softens, making no effort to hide the underlying devotion there."_Your voice is a peerless instrument that causes even the angels to weep, my little dove."_

His adoration is so plain that I expect Christine to blush under his heavy praise. Instead, she retracts with a petulant huff and glares, -as well as she is able to glare- in the direction of the wing. _"Little dove? Do I seem a bird to you, monsieur?"_ A toss of her head and swing of her hips for good measure.

Another chuckle, far too sensual than should be proper. _"Not a bird then, but an angel without question."_

At this, she does blush, lips curling into a deceivingly demure gin. _"Then I find myself in good company."_ she murmurs, once again casting pleading eyes to the wings before amending her previous thought. _"That is, I would very much like to be."_

His tone grows darker, words laced with an edge of danger. _"Angels can fall, Christine."_

_"Or they may soar,"_ Her counter is just as sharp. _"Be it fall or fly, I have chosen to bind myself to you come what may. You know as much."_

_"It is not wise."_

A humorless laugh escapes that golden throat. _"And when have you ever cared a whit for conventional wisdom?'"_

She hesitates only slightly before she places her request, murmured so softly that it should not be audible at all, yet I hear it all the same, unwarrently censored to be privy to such an intimate plea. _"Is your voice truly all that I am to have of you tonight?"_

Her query is met with stubborn silence until she steps back with a defeated sigh. Her head is bowed only for a moment before her eyes flick up with a resolute lift of her chin that I recognize all too well. _"Very well, you obstinate boar. I feel like dancing tonight and since you cannot be bothered, I shall have to be my own partner."_

She begins to sway gently before my eyes, each step to an invisible rhythm and, if I remain still enough, I can very nearly swear that I begin to feel it too. _"I think I shall prefer a waltz," _she muses to the darkness. _"Unoriginal perhaps, but romantic none the less, even if one is meant to dance alone."_

She moves first to the side, then forward, over and over, edging precariously close to the edge of the stage. My pulse spikes at her inattention to her steps, yet she pays no heed, as if she knows every inch of the space as well as she knows a lover. Her smile is tender but tinged with melancholy as her eyes slide closed and her arms wrap around her body, no doubt imagining a much darker embrace.

Her dark curls fan through the air as she twirls lightly away from the edge and I cannot help but breathe a sigh of relief. Her eyes are still shut as she moves through the steps, her movements effortless graceful and she seems to glide across the polished wood and before long, her smile becomes genuine.

_"Do you remember the last time we danced, mon ange?" _Her voice has become low, enticing. _"God, it seems like another lifetime ago, beneath a moonless sky not so different from tonight. I can still feel your arms around me, your hands holding mine."_

She is lost to her own thoughts, vivid memories of things gone by and suddenly I feel like an unwelcome voyeur sharing moments of which I have no right knowing. Blessedly, she is unaware of anything but her reminiscence. _"Would you dance with me again, Erik?"_ she muses, at last giving a name to her reluctant admirer _"Or will you make beg only to leave me wanting?"_

Her arms are spread wide now, a bold invitation to her partner in this strange duet. Her movement never cease, but the blackness around here seems to spring to life, just for a moment, and then he is there in a flash of white from the wing, one hand at her waist and the other clasps her fingers as he takes the lead and whirls her properly around the stage. _"You know I will never leave you, Christine,"_ he admonishes gently.

She gazes up at him with abandon as they finish the dance, concluding with a swirl of skirts and cloak. Once he is certain she is steady on her feet, he takes a half-step back, sweeping into a perfect bow as he presses a kiss to her knuckles. She beams up at him as he rises to his full height, his imposing figure draped in midnight from neck to toe with the exception of a half white-mask.

_"As always, you are bewitching."_ he murmurs, taken a brazen step toward her, hovering closer and closer as his arms coil around her waist. She leans into his hold, sliding arms provocatively up his chest until they are linked about his neck, The crown of her head settles just below his chin and he tilts his head just so to rest against her temple. _"What else would you have of me tonight?"_

_"Only everything that you are,"_ she returns tartly, lifting her head slightly to catch his stunned expression. _"I have waited long enough."_ Her hands move from their home at his neck to grasp the lapels of his tailcoat, pulling him so close that they seem to merge into one being. _"You have teased me long enough, monsieur. Tonight, I will have what is mine by right."_

His hands tighten almost imperceptibly at her waist, then slide down to rest on her hips. _"Is that so? And what exactly would that be?"_ His voice is beautifully cold, but betrayed by a slight touch of enthralling amusement.

_"Your music, of course,"_ she returns lightly, gripping him tighter. _"and your heart."_

A low rumble from his chest becomes a thrilling chuckle. _"If my diva commands it."_

_"Oh, my love,"_ she whispers, ghosting her lips over the curve of his exposed jaw. _"Be assured that I do."_ She rises on tiptoe to mold soft curves to a hard, lean length, drawing his head closer and down, the speck of space between them growing smaller and smaller...

The connection is so intimate that I am sure that my ears tinge red and I suddenly realize that I am perched on the very edge of my seat. My eyes remain riveted to the scene before me as my heart races. They never engage in such overt displays of affection and I find myself like a month to their flame, drawn completely into their world as if I myself am awaiting a stolen kiss.

His hand at her back.

Her eyelids fluttering closed.

So near...so close...and then…

"Gustave!"

So quickly shattered by the voice of the principal dancer of the current company. My attention immediately snaps to the new voice, planted by the office door and glowering at me with an exasperated smile."Whatever are you doing in the dark?"

Repressing a frustrated huff, I glance quickly back at the stage to find it empty, the silence now still and I know I will see no more of them tonight. "Just thinking," I finish lamely. I am not ready to share what I have witnessed in the theater tonight. "I'll be along in a moment."

She gives a curt nod in return, studying me through narrowed eyes for a brief moment before taking her leave. Pausing at the door, she smiles, "You've done a wonderful job with the concert hall, you know. I think that they would be proud."

My only answer is a wry grin, which she returns before waving good-bye. While I appreciate the words, my mind wanders back to the thousand questions that never cease.

Am I as talented as my mother? As brilliant as my father?

What would they think of me now? Have I made them proud?

Do they know how much I miss them?

The air is suddenly thick around me and I feel my body tremble as I hear two ghostly whispers, entwining me on all sides.

_"Life may be fleeting…"_ The slight pressure of a comforting hand at my shoulder.

_"...love lives on."_ The whisper of a good-night kiss at my cheek.

My throat burns and tightens, fresh tears pricking my eyes as the auditorium falls stagnant and still once more, but the truth remains.

The opera _ghosts_ are here ...and their love story is far from over.


End file.
